The Adventure Of The Christmas Cracker
by Sherlock Emrys
Summary: A seasonal adventure for John and Sherlock, as an unknown and totally not Moriarty criminal sets out to ruin London's Christmas with exploding crackers. Well, all crackers explode but... you get the idea. No Slash. Very little swearing. Now complete!
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Normally I wouldn't do a seasonal fic, but this particular plot tribble _wouldn't_ leave me alone. So- in warning, this will be slightly crack!Humor and I may not update frequently, but I'll endeavor to finish this before January *shifty eyes* So, happy holidays! Or whatever you're celebrating.**

The Adventure Of The Christmas Cracker

Chapter I

It was the day before Christmas Eve. London was ensnared in the festive season, late Christmas shoppers thronging the streets as carols rang out in a battle for ears, minds and wallets.

Christmas is a time of peace, joy, and goodwill. A time to meet family and friends and put aside grudges, a time of rest and happiness.

So reflected John Watson as he sprinted after Sherlock Holmes down a dark alleyway, ducking bullets as they chased an armed burglar who had decided that Christmas was the season for taking.

When the burglar was safely under arrest and Lestrade had grudgingly thanked the pair, John went straight back to 221b. Sherlock stayed out until that evening, although he didn't say where he was and somehow John didn't think that he was buying Christmas presents.

John occupied himself by wrapping gifts for Mrs Hudson, Sarah and Lestrade. He hadn't bothered to get anything for Sherlock since Sherlock would not have bothered to get anything for him and would probably have thrown away any gifts instantly, and John didn't have enough money to throw it away like that.

John didn't know what he was doing for Christmas, but he didn't think that it would be a _normal_ day. No turkey, tree, presents and dull party games; no family rows and flaming puddings. What there would be, he knew, was Sherlock being either exasperating or irritating or both, and/or running for his life for some reason. He didn't know why he'd ever thought he'd get Christmas off; the criminal community had no sense of seasonality.

DI Lestrade was cleaning up after Sherlock's last arrest. He was more optimistic than John about his Christmas; he had the day off and he intended to spend some time with his family for once. He warned Sherlock, in no uncertain terns, to stay away from trouble on Christmas and that, since the man drew trouble like a magnet, when he _did_ get into it he was to keep Lestrade out of it.

Lestrade had a feeling that even this wouldn't work. Sherlock Holmes was a born troublemaker.

Mycroft Holmes was in the middle of a highly delicate diplomatic negotiation. He was losing his temper fast, although he tried not to show it. This was a problem that cropped up every year. His current predicament took all his skill at manipulation to resolve.

Trying to get Sherlock to come home for Christmas dinners was nigh impossible.

And once again, it would appear that Sherlock was going to hold out. Mycroft knew better than to force him- the last time he'd tried, Sherlock had actually detonated a bomb harmlessly in a deserted office block to get out of it. It just wasn't worth it.

Mycroft had one last try. 'Sherlock. Please? It's for one hour, once a year. It doesn't take a lot from you just to say hello to your parents.'

A burst of violin music- or what passed for it in Mycroft's presence, although he knew his brother was excellent at the instrument when he wanted to- drove him from the flat.

Well, at least he could say that he'd tried. He left the house in self-righteous indignation as his car pulled up. He would spend Christmas day having a pleasant meal with his family; let his brother do what he wished.

In a less salubrious quarter of London, another Christmas was being planned. And this one would derail the plans of every other player in this game and probably most of the rest of London. The plan he had devised months ago was swinging into gear smoothly and all was going on time. A little more work to do, and then Christmas for Sherlock Holmes would truly go with a bang. A delighted giggle escaped his lips. That was a rather good line. Perhaps he should use it when Holmes came looking for him. This season's games would certainly not be boring.

**Chapter 2 up soon :)**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter II

Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa petulantly. John barely glanced at him before returning to the hazardous occupation of making a cup of tea, a procedure that he compared to the chemistry experiments he remembered from school. Carefully, he checked the water in the kettle. pH neutral. This was rarer than should ever be the case.

'John, it's Christmas tomorrow.'

'Well, that was a fantastic deduction.'

Sherlock ignored him. 'The criminal community is normally more active at this time of year. I only know one reason why criminal activity drops off unexpectedly.'

'I sense I'm not going to like it,' John muttered as he inspected a mug for eyeballs and- to his disgust- found one.

'Moriarty is planning something. He's got the rest of them jumping when he whistles, he's going to try a _game_.'

'Of course, it couldn't ever be that Christmas is a time of peace and happiness,' John grumbled. He found a mug that was free of all body parts and with trepidation poured the tea into it. He sniffed suspiciously. Was it meant to smell like that?

'No no, don't be stupid, why would Moriarty think like that? No, he's up to something. We're going to have a busy Christmas. I have a feeling that it's going to be seasonal too, knowing him.'

'Great. Just what I wanted for Christmas this year, a dangerous fight with a master criminal.'

'I know, isn't it wonderful? The only way it could be better is if we had a serial killer to catch too.'

John lifted the lid of the teapot in sudden fear. He'd forgotten to check it before pouring water in.

'Because normal Christmas presents would be dull,' he murmured abstractedly. The liquid in the teapot was definitely _not_ tea. At all. John spotted what looked like a- oh, _god._ What the hell was Sherlock doing with _that_ in the _teapot?_

'Very. So, tomorrow we're off to find out what Moriarty is planning.'

John tipped the teapot's contents into the bin, his head turned away to avoid the need to vomit. He looked at the pot, then threw that into the bin as well. Even if he washed it out, there was no way he would ever drink from it again.

'I have a feeling,' Sherlock murmured as he steepled his fingers beneath his chin, 'that this Christmas will be very interesting indeed.'

* * *

><p>All acrossLondonthe Plan was coming into effect. That's a Plan with a capital P; this criminal was very precise when it came to his proper nouns. Anyway, all overLondonthe Plan-With-A-Capital-P was swinging into action. In a tower block, three windows blew out one after the other. An office's windows shattered. Sirens split the night as all acrossLondonthe sound of breaking glass disturbed the deep dark (or rather, dark-ish) Christmas Eve.<p>

The emergency services responded just as quickly as they could. The continued explosions were utterly at random, the cause as yet unknown, andLondonwas soon in the grip of terror as people slowly realized that this was not an isolated incident. A nation-wide alert was put out; Christmas leave was cancelled for the police and all citizens with access to the internet, radio or TV were soon cowering in fear behind their sofas.

* * *

><p>Except for DI Lestrade, who had taken his phone off the hook and turned off his mobile, and was thus blissfully unaware that London was falling apart around him.<p>

* * *

><p>Mycroft Holmes, in the Holmes' country retreat, was instantly alerted and reluctantly prevented from the destruction of the rather large dinner he was contemplating. The matriarch of the Holmes family looked on with weary forbearance as yet another Christmas Dinner was left to cool on the table in favour of running around the country risking lives. Or, in Mycroft's case, encouraging his brother to do same whilst sitting smugly in an armoured car.<p>

* * *

><p>Sherlock, of course, was instantly aware of the situation. Not only had the TV, which had previously been blaring some rubbish TV show involving flying fish- <em>ridiculous, no oxygenated atmosphere could ever support such a form of life-<em> that John had been watching, begun displaying a panicked newscaster exhorting everyone to stay in their homes due to bombings which were occurring in, surprisingly, residential areas (rendering the imperative utterly pointless), but the radio (playing annoying music in the kitchen) had also begun squawking the same message, and Sherlock's laptop had bleeped to inform him of flagged news articles and no less than seven new messages from the Yard, at precisely the same moment as his phone went crazy with texts, emails and voice calls.

Sherlock grinned happily as he sprinted down the street, John following behind yelling some stupid comments about normal Christmases and why didn't he ever get them. It seemed somebody had decided to send him a Christmas present after all.

* * *

><p>The offices of the Yard were a-bustle with people yelling for reports, calling for silence, being ignored, and getting on with the normal business of police work. Sherlock pushed through the crowd with ease, leaving John to apologize to all those inadvertently injured in the process. He reached Lestrade's office with a few witty remarks fully prepared, only to find- to his slight irritation, if not surprise- that Lestrade was not there. Instead, the desk was occupied with the rather annoying DI who had covered Lestrade the last time he had gone missing, during that case some time ago with the Chinese circus. What was his name? Began with a D, didn't it? Dimwit, that sounded about right.<p>

'Well, Inspector?'

DI Dimwit stood up with a look of astonished infuriation. 'You aren't supposed to be here, you don't have clearance!'

John appeared by Sherlock's side. 'You did ask for us to come.'

DI Dimwit gaped like a fish out of water. 'I did no such thing! The Yard is not in need of your assistance!'

Sherlock shrugged. 'Your colleagues seem to think so.'

He flipped his phone around to show the log of calls on his screen. They were from no less than seven members of the Yard.

The look on DI Dimwit's face was priceless.

**AN: This was written in my IT class, so it's a little better than usual. (I've got more time there.) Also, a case of art imitating life; I can't remember that guy's name either, but it sounds vaguely like Dimwit. I remembered it later (pretty sure it's Dimmock) but decided to keep it because, well, it's a rather Sherlocky thing to do :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm pretty sure that only one person is actually reading this. I'm updating anyway. Why? Who knows?**

**Another one written in an IT class; I'm obviously doing REALLY well in those lessons. Actually, I think part of this was Maths. So yes; also, this is now probably an AU as of SiB, but I don't care. Also, it's late and I'm tying to get it done before the end of January. ^^;**

* * *

><p>Chapter 3<p>

Sherlock had been kicked out of the Yard building unceremoniously. He was taking it with surprisingly good grace, considering his usual temperament, and was continuing undaunted in his quest to stop the mysterious criminal. He led the way off along a dark side street, followed by a reluctant John (who was still wishing for normal Christmases, although given the recent development ofLondon's combustibility he wouldn't have got one even if he'd never met Sherlock).

The Mysterious Criminal, Who Was Not Moriarty, snickered quietly to himself as he watched the chaos unfold across all ofLondonon the TV screens in front of him. He leaned back and allowed an Evil Smirk ™ to cross his face as he contemplated Sherlock Holmes' no doubt formidable attempts to foil his plans. He realized that he was smirking and hastily wiped the expression off his face, lest somebody realize that he was Smirking™, or lest he was sued by Morgana Pendragon (who owns all copyrights and trademarks on Evil Smirk™s).

The Mysterious Criminal Who Was Not Moriarty stood up and stretched. That was quite enough evil plotting and smirking for one day. Time to get back to work.

* * *

><p>Mycroft, sitting in the back of his expensive car, frowned in annoyance at his phone.<p>

'Have you looked _everywhere_?'

'With respect, sir, this isn't a lost pair of keys we're talking about here. It's your brother. And yes, we have looked everywhere.' A burst of static briefly interrupted the phone call as the car sped under a tunnel and Mycroft waited patiently until they emerged at the other end. '—since the last time, and you know what happened then.'

'I beg your pardon?' Mycroft said in curiosity.

'You remember, with the fruitcake? It took a while to cover for that one.'

Mycroft still had no idea what the woman was talking about. This was a rare event for Mycroft.

'Yes, fine, thank you- what are you calling yourself today?'

'Olwen, sir.'

'Why?'

'I like that name, sir.'

'Fine. Fine. Well, Olwen, I want Sherlock found. Knowing him, he's already out solving this one, but just in case he's had one of his periodic fits of madness and is refusing to investigate it, I still want to know exactly what he's doing.'

'Understood, sir.' With a click, his assistant hung up and Mycroft was left in silence to contemplate how much he detested his brother, criminals, Sherlock, working on Christmas Eve, his brother, below-par assistants, Sherlock, British Weather and his brother.

* * *

><p>The figure in the darkened room cackled manically, then coughed and rubbed his throat. Evil laughs really took it out of you. He dropped his hands to his sides and frowned at the bank of monitors in front of him. At last, at long last, he had Sherlock Holmes at his mercy. Well. Not <em>yet<em>, precisely, but he would just as soon as he fell into one of the traps dotting the lair.

The shadowy menace frowned in frustration as the man avoided the revolving trapdoor, disabled the alarms and deactivated the statue concealing a sniper rifle.

Damn, he was good.

A flutter of worry made its appearance in his stomach. What if Holmes was actually capable of beating him?

He frowned and looked a little closer at the monitors. The detective's companion was considerably more useless than he had thought. Anybody associating with him must be an idiot and therefore posed no threat.

It's this form of logic that usually leads to inevitable defeat for the baddies.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was annoyed. He had made his way through the laughable succession of traps far too easily. No self-respecting arch criminal would set up such a paltry level of security- surely Moriarty could do better?<p>

He voiced this thought to John, who simply shrugged, of the opinion that the security was quite good enough, given that he had been the one to fall into most of the traps.

Sherlock was bored and didn't really want to bother with actually catching the criminal. John couldn't believe that- he'd been dragged halfway across Londonon the premise that Christmas Crackers were proving deadly and was now being told it was _boring_.

This wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind for Christmas, although on reflection, he felt, he should have know better than to expect anything of the 'normal' kind since he had made friends with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p>Sherlock poked his head around a corner, took in the corridor at a glance and pulled his head back. A blow dart whistled past his ear.<p>

'Seriously?' John muttered. He was beginning to feel like he'd wandered into an Indiana Jones movie by mistake.

Sherlock rattled off some spiel that John couldn't even make out, let alone understand, as he prodded the wall looking for a way to deactivate it. The only part of Sherlock's monologue he could really understand was the 'A-ha!' as he pulled aside a panel on the wall and ripped out a wire.

'Must make it awfully inconvenient to go out shopping,' John muttered as they progressed further towards the centre of the building. 'Although if he's anything like you, which he is, he probably makes somebody else do it.'

'What do you mean, _if he's anything like me?_' Sherlock asked as he ducked through a doorway.

'Well, you're both psychopaths-'

'High functioning sociopath.'

'Which is the same as a psychopath, as you'd know if you'd done your _own_ research. I'm a doctor. Of course I know the definition of sociopath.'

'Shut up.'

'Did you actually not look it up?'

Sherlock informed John that _of course_ he knew what a sociopath was, he was trying to annoyAnderson, and if John wasn't such an idiot he would have seen that.

John retained a healthy dose of scepticism.

* * *

><p>They progressed gradually through the layers of security towards the Inner Sanctum, as the shadowy watcher liked to think of it. It wasn't very inner-sanctum-y right now, true, but he was working on it and he'd have it redecorated by the end of next week. He hadn't counted on Sherlock being so fast to deduce the cause of the explosions, and to trace the source. He'd wanted it to take longer, to be more of a game and less of, well, a hunt. Not that Sherlock was the hunter, of course not. He was walking right into the trap...<p>

* * *

><p>Sherlock sighed as he circumnavigated another pit. This one appeared to have scorpions in it.<p>

'You know, this really doesn't seem like Moriarty's style,' John muttered as he inched along the free space. He'd had a few bad experiences with scorpions he had no desire to repeat.

'That's what I have been saying,' Sherlock pointed out smugly.

'Yeah, but you've probably deduced a billion and one things from this place. I've just got common sense and if Moriarty was trying to keep people out then he would, at least, use venomous scorpions. This pit is full of harmless little arachnids.'

'Obviously. So, we have two explanations- either somebody extremely incompetent is organizing this...'

'Or he isn't trying to kill us,' John completed.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Well, there we have it. One complete chapter. It 's only taken a stupidly long time.<strong>

**Points nobody cares about: Scorpions are varying degrees of venemous, and the bigger (and scarier looking) the scorpion, and particularly it's pincers, the less potent it's venom is. And yes, they ARE arachnids.**

**And yes. A psychopath and a sociopath are different names for the same thing.**

**That's about it. A belated Merry Christmas, and a happy New Year!**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: A double update! Hurrah! Yes, I'm really trying to get this finished now, since it's pushing it a bit for Christmas fics. January 5th is still OK, just, so I want to wrap this up ASAP. Here we go!**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 4<span>

John was not happy. It was Christmas Eve- or maybe Christmas Day, he had no way to tell- and he was crawling through a ventilation shaft. A _ventilation shaft_. Because after all, he was smaller than Sherlock and he could fit through the ducts, so he had to be the one to break past the final barrier. Obviously.

The most annoying part was that it actually made some sense. Sherlock could never squeeze his lanky frame through the tiny shafts, and John could. Sherlock couldn't sneak in there and spy on whoever was inside. John could. And the final argument; Sherlock couldn't shoot with pinpoint accuracy from inside the confined space. And John most definitely could.

All of which lead, logically, to John Watson crawling through a ventilation shaft on Christmas Day at some ridiculous hour of the night, cursing Sherlock's name.

Ahead was a hatch leading down into the next room. John sped up his pace, crawling hopefully towards the shaft of light. Carefully, he looked down through the grid and scanned the room, checking for concealed snipers or other hazards. There were none. He turned his attention to the bank of monitors that were glowing in the gloomy room, and the shadowy figure hunched in front of them. Carefully, he aimed his gun at the target. If he needed to, he had it covered.

Sherlock should be making his move around now. John watched the big double doors and counted in his head. Five- four- three- two- o-

The doors burst open.

John muttered something rude under his breath as he saw the man's profile, silhouetted against the monitors as he turned. It was starkly outlined in the glow, and it was definitely, definitely _not_ Moriarty.

Damn.

* * *

><p>Sherlock carefully finished his short-circuiting of the doors opening mechanism and began to count in his head. Important to give John enough time to get a sight on Moriarty.<p>

He waited for all of ten seconds before flicking the switch for the doors. If John wasn't ready it was his own fault.

The big double doors burst open as Sherlock applied his boot with force to the lock. He strode inside and quickly took stock of the room.

Florescent lights flickered on, triggered automatically by the door. A big bank of monitors showed various parts of the building that they had had to make their way through. The scorpion pit was overflowing, Sherlock noted. And that concealed weight, ready to flatten people, really did need repairing. Sherlock had permanently disabled it.

A tall, hunched figure was brooding over the monitors like some great bird. It spun around as Sherlock entered, scowling viciously.

And it was _not_ Jim Moriarty.

* * *

><p>The criminal sighed and sat down on a rather battered looking swivel chair.<p>

'Well?' he said with as much of an evil sneer as he could muster.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. 'You know exactly why I'm here.'

'Ha!' The man actually shouted 'Ha'; that was never a good sign. 'You can't stop me! My plans are nearly complete!

Sherlock could hear those extra exclaimation marks. Multiple exclaimation marks, especially when audibly pronounced, were a clear sign that a psychiatrist was needed. His eyes flickered over the mad man.

Clothes- old, tattered. A once-smart suit, fashion of the 30s. Antique- no, machine stitching on the seams, it's a replica. Old replica? Costume, theatrical, much abused. His eyes flitted to the buttons. Hallmark- local manufacturer, local . Mud spattered on the shoes, went through a park, not from outside the city, no sign of wind ruffling clothes and it's been blowing a gale in every place outsideLondonwithin a half-hours travel. Lives local, went through a park on his way here. Only park nearby is the one en route to, let's see,White Horse Lane?Calburn Street?Calburn street, judging by the paint marks on his sleeve- they've been redoing the house fronts so he would have picked it up as he went home. He's an office worker, single, no children, lives alone, not too high up the ladder- secretery? Secretery. The costume- an amateur theatrics group? Only one local to Calburn Street. The accountant... a Mr Harrison. Criminal record- breaking and entering.

Sherlock's mind made the connections in a matter of seconds, before Harrison had even had time to speak. Sherlock beat him to it.

'Mr Harrison, I presume. And how's the amateur theatrics going?'

It was a gamble but it paid off. One look atHarrison's face told Sherlock he was right. He scanned the room, looking for the hatch to the ventilation shaft. There, right behind Harrison. Sherlock saw a glint of metal as John took up his station. They had him in a perfect pincer ploy.

Harrisonstood up and smirked. It didn't look especially menacing, and Sherlock took a step again and drew a knife from his pocket. Sherlock stopped.

'You, Sherlock Holmes,' Harrisonspat. 'You're a bloody pain, you know that? Everywhere I go, _you_ are stopping me.'

'I haven't actually seen you before today,' Sherlock pointed him.

'It stops right here, Holmes! I can't allow you and your little friend to go any further.'

Sherlock frowned and looked curiously at the man. 'What do you mean?'

'Don't bother, Holmes. The good Doctor is around somewhere, I know that much. Well, wherever you've left him, it won't do you any good. You're both here now… right where you need to be.'

'Why on Earth would we need to be here?'

'Oh come on, you're the great Sherlock Holmes!' He leaned closer, his face an apoplectic red. 'Deduce it.'

He spun on his heel and went to walk away.

'You need us for something.'

He spun back around and laughed. It was an unstable, maddened laugh. It was a very worrying laugh, the kind that men in white coats would take as a sign to do their jobs.

'I just said that, you moron!'

Sherlock ground his teeth. Insults to his intelligence were worse than his brother, worse than people 'cleaning up' his experiments. He fought an urge to punch this unhinged imbecile. It was not a good idea whilst he was holding a knife.

'Well, you tell me then. What exactly did you need me for?'

He kept his eyes on the hatch, waiting till he was sure John was looking at him, then flicked his eyes downwards. He hoped John had got the message. He kept talking. 'I mean, if you actually wanted my help all you had to do was ask. I've got a website, a telephone, everything. Blowing up half of London could be considered overkill.' The hatch was gently wobbling; good, John had understood his message.

'You want to know what I needed you for? Hmm?' Harrison had reached a new pitch of insanity; he was even pronouncing interrobangs now. 'I needed you…' He paused dramatically. 'Out of the way.'

Sherlock waited for the rest of the explanation. When it appeared that more was not forthcoming, he shook his head. 'That's _all_? All of this, just because you wanted me out of the way?'

Harrison sat back down, sprawling across his battered chair. It sank a bit under his weight with a distinctive _swoosh_ of expelled air. Sherlock was sure he heard John sniggering. The hatchway was coming loose now; the grating was almost off.

'Listen, Holmes,' Harrison drawled. It was such a startling change from his previous manner, it fully validated Sherlock's theory onHarrison's mental stability- i.e., that he didn't have any. 'I gotta say, it wasn't totally my idea. I mean, what the hell can you do? But I got a friend, a good friend, who you've caused a lot of trouble recently. And he asked me to hang onto you- as a favour.'

'Friend?' Sherlock said coldly. 'Who?'

Harrison grinned, shook his head. 'Now, why would I tell you that? As it happens, he asked me not to. So no. I can't tell you.'

'Moriarty,' Sherlock said venomously.

Harrisonshrugged. 'That's as may be. Not for me to say what his name is.'

'You realize that he's no friend to you? He'll use you and drop you instantly. He doesn't make friends,' Sherlock said, his eyes on the grating as it was lifted out of the hatch and shifted aside. _Keep him talking._

'Well, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you Sherlock?' Harrison replied lazily.

'What do you mean?' Sherlock snapped deadpan.

'Well, it's not like you have any friends either,' Harrison smirked. John was busily emerging from the hatch behind him, dangling from the edge of the grate by his fingertips. 'You tend to _throw them away_ pretty quick too, don't you?' He laughed. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. John landed silently and drew his gun. 'I mean,' Harrison continued, 'what about Doctor Watson, for example?'

'What about him?' Sherlock replied absently, tensing up.

'You abandoned him pretty quickly on the way in here. What happened, did you push him in the scorpion pit? Cause you know, Sherlock,' he said, looking to his left and his right theatrically, 'I don't see him around.'

John pulled back the safety on his gun and jammed it to Harrison's temple. The man froze.

'Good timing, John,' Sherlock said coolly. He strode forwards and wrenched the knife from Harrison's back onto his chair and whimpered slightly.

'Right, that's that sorted. And we've put out a police alert on the crackers?'

'Yes, I have. I never thought I would ever have to say that. I mean, exploding Christmas Crackers?' John shook his head. 'I mean, really? Even for you, Sherlock, that's weird verging on unbelievable.'

'Don't look at me, it was Harrison's idea. Well, Moriarty's really.'

'So it _was_ Moriarty.' John was busily securing a viciously struggling Harrison and wishing Sherlock would actually help him rather than just standing there.

'Obviously.' Sherlock turned around, looking about him at the 'lair'. 'This place isn't much, is it? What was it, Evil Villainy on a Budget?'

Harrison squirmed. 'Shut it, Holmes! This isn't over!'

'You're tied to your own chair. I think it is.'

'I have to say, it looks pretty over from where I'm standing,' John agreed as he finished tying the knots.

'Quiet, you insignificant worms!' Harrison yelled. John ignored him as he walked towards the exit.

'D'you reckon this is a back door?'

'Looks like it. I think those elaborate traps were all for our benefit, so I think we can leave this way.'

'Should we tell Dimmock about this back door, or should we let him go in through the front?' John pondered as they emerged into the cool night air.

'Let him work it out for himself,' Sherlock said and set off along the dark alleyway. 'I want to see what he makes of the Scorpion Pit.'

That earned him not a single friend at the Yard, and Dimmock flat out refused to ever work with Sherlock again, which Sherlock was delighted with.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Quick note; When I transfer stories over to the submission window, it randomly deletes spaces that WERE there in the Word window. For some reason, the spaces before and after the words 'Harrison' and 'London' are the ones normally subject to this. If <em>anyone<em> knows why on Earth this happens, could you tell me? I genuinely want to know. Anyway, I think I caught and corrected them all but if I missed some, sorry!**


	5. Chapter 5

** AN: And again! Finally, it's finished in respectable time! Here's the epilogue. I might as well warn you that this chapter contains the word 'bloody' rather frequently, usually between the words 'Sherlock' and 'Holmes'.**

Chapter 5/ Epilogue

Lestrade was settling down to family dinner that night secure in the knowledge of his Christmas being utterly Sherlock- free. He still had no idea whatsoever of the chaos reigning throughout London that night and was oblivious to his own danger. He had bought the Christmas crackers specially, and they had been expensive- the new brand that was being manufactured this year, that were supposed to be much better than the usual cheap tut. His little girl was impatient to pull hers and Lestrade, laughing, had to take it away from her to make her wait until the end of the meal. The cunning girl simply burst into tears and Lestrade and his wife shared an exasperated look before agreeing to pull the crackers _before _the meal.

Lestrade's apartment was expensive. He had bought it with several years savings. One of the reasons that he had wanted it was the view from the balcony, showing him the city that he was charged to protect- sometimes from criminals, sometimes from terrorists, sometimes from one or both of those bloody Holmes brothers. The balcony was accessed by a large glass door, currently shut tight against the cold. It had a rather blobby red figure that Lestrade was assured was, in fact, a Santa Claus, made by his daughter, stuck on it.

Lestrade liked his house. He liked those doors. And most of all, he liked spending Christmas with his family.

Which is why he was more than a bit annoyed when Sherlock bloody Holmes came smashing through the glass, apparently having swung down from the balcony above.

His daughter shrieked. His wife yelled something unprintable and grabbed a knife from the table in shock. Lestrade himself jumped to his feet and swore very loudly at Sherlock.

'Merry Christmas to you too,' Sherlock said coolly as he dusted himself down.

'What do you mean, Merry Christmas? You just _smashed_ my window!' Lestrade yelled, agape.

'You wouldn't answer your phone.'

Lestrade continued to utter several pieces of choice invective until his wife gave him a Look and pointed to his daughter. Lestrade calmed down, although he still had a red face. Sherlock shrugged.

A knock came at the door.

'That'll be John,' Sherlock said calmly. 'I said that the window was fastest, but no, he had to be illogical and take the lift to the front door…'

Lestrade didn't dignify that with a response. He just opened the door and let John in without a word. John smiled somewhat tiredly.

'Evening, Lestrade. Look, Sherlock's on his way… oh, I see he's already here. I did try and stop him,' he added in his defence.

'I can't have the only decent police officer on the Met blown to smithereens. Who would give me cases?' Sherlock said by way of justification.

'Yes, but really Sherlock? One phone call is all it would have taken.'

A cough alerted them to Lestrade's presence. They looked over shamefacedly.

'You two,' Lestrade said firmly, 'had better have a damn good explanation for this.'

A few minutes later Lestrade had been filled in and was in a mild state of shock.

'So… what you are telling me is that you smashed my window and broke into my flat in order to inform me that my Christmas crackers are, in fact, loaded with explosive.'

'Er… yes,' John confirmed.

'And that this is because some oddball psycho who's all chummy with Moriarty, whose only _proven_ crime to date is locking you two in a swimming pool, has decided it might be fun?'

'That's about it.'

'Even coming from the Consulting Detective who keeps body parts in the fridge and the ex-army Doctor who for some unearthly reason _puts up with this_, that's a little improbable.'

Sherlock stretched. 'When you have eliminated the impossible-'

'Yes, thank you, shut up, I don't need to hear any more of your glib sayings.' Lestrade turned to John, leaving Sherlock pouting like a child without a toy. 'John, is this actually true? You seem a lot less likely to make stuff up than him.'

John held his gaze. 'It is absolutely true.'

'Right then,' Lestrade said with a sigh. 'That's Christmas ruined, courtesy of Sherlock bloody Holmes, so we may as well clean up.'

* * *

><p>The London clean up operation took a very, very long time. The Yard eventually got past the assorted death traps inHarrison's 'fort' and arrested him on charges of Terrorism, Murder, Manslaughter, Fraud, Assault and Making Us Work On Christmas Day. The last one didn't stick in court despite their best attempts, butHarrisonwas none the less sent to jail for many years.<p>

Mycroft's agents never found Sherlock, for the simple reason that they were all at their Christmas Party and none of them were sober enough to actually do any work. Mycroft found them scattered around various parts of London in a variety of gutters the next day, and they all regretted it severely. Mycroft Holmes banned Christmas Parties once and for all, which didn't do anything for his popularity.

Sherlock Holmes went straight back to 221b and did nothing at all to help anybody. But that's no surprise. As a concession to the Christmas season, his violin playing for the next three days was, in fact, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen on a permanent loop.

Lestrade gave up on Christmas at his house and when he'd moved his wife and daughter out to the country he came and spent Christmas Day morosely slumped on the sofa at 221b. He managed, very quickly, to get very drunk. After a brief round of a slurred 'God Rest Ye Gerry Mentlemen' accompanied by Sherlock's violin, he fell asleep and stayed asleep. Policemen are good drinkers; they go from vertical to horizontal with the minimum amount of fuss. Any policeman finds alcohol as much a part of his protection as his bulletproof vest and riot shield, against the things that they see on the streets. Any policeman dealing with Sherlock Holmes doubles the alcohol intake instantly.

John Watson also returned to 221b at 9.00 that night, after spending all day helping with the rescue teams. Having not slept for around 35 hours, he imbibes tea- because it's John- laced heavily with whisky- because it's Christmas- and then falls asleep straight away, waking only to throw something at Sherlock because he's _still_ playing God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen and Lestrade's singing the wrong words.

Just another, normal Christmas in London. Well. Normal for Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I think it must be the letters N and L that are allergic to spaces. 'Normal' did it as well as 'London', although that doesn't explain Harrison.<strong>

**I still don't know why it's doing that but hopefully I fixed them all.**

**Also; let's see who caught the Discworld quote! It's a bit obscure, but hey.**

**Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night! God bless us, every one!**


End file.
